POTC: Pirates of the Snow
by ShahbanouScheherazade
Summary: Jack Sparrow is determined to pay his debt to the daughter of Teague's closest friend, and his plan will even make him rich. But he has other worries: a stolen ship, a crew he doesn't trust, and a dangerous ring of smugglers. It might still work, if his luck holds. If his father doesn't find out. And if he can keep himself and his young friend from getting killed.
1. The Borrower and the Lender

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. The original plots and characters are owned by me.

A/N: Many thanks to **Freedom of the Seas**, beta extraordinaire!

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**The Borrower and the Lender**

"Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend."

- William Shakespeare, _Hamlet_

It was Market Day in Truro, and the moment Jack had been dreading for weeks was finally upon him. He was standing outside a shop on Lemon Street with the Brat next to him, and she was fairly dancing on her toes with excitement as she gazed at the shop window.

"Isn't it lovely? It's the loveliest thing ever!" she exclaimed. "Father says now I'm ten, I'm old enough – I couldn't wait to show you!"

"Ten is _not_ old enough, and I shall have a word with Captain Harry at once," retorted Jack, certain that his own judgment would prevail by virtue of the eight years' seniority he enjoyed. "You've put one over on him, you have!"

"I _want_ it," declared the Brat, and her dark blue eyes flashed at him with steely determination. Jack decided to try a different tactic.

"Tell you what: let's go in and have a word with the proprietor," he offered. "You need to be sure it's worth the price, and I'm just the one to tell you if it is; I know everything there is to know about scimitars. This is a dealer in antiquities, not a proper armourer, and it's likely to be some rubbish brought back as a memento – or even a stage sword," he added, wrinkling his face in disgust.

The Brat considered this for a moment, but then she challenged him. "Then let's go in now. I've already waited six months." Jack sighed and ushered her into the shop, hoping to find some fatal flaw in the scimitar that would knock the proposed purchase on its head, and forestall embarrassing questions about certain monies he owed her.

As the antique weapon was brought out for inspection, the girl positively glowed with happiness. And despite Jack's best efforts and most critical eye, the scimitar was clearly of superior workmanship; well-balanced, strong yet light, and in exceptional condition.

"An excellent value at five guineas," said the proprietor to the pair of unlikely-looking purchasers.

"We'll let you know," Jack replied, as he took the Brat's arm and steered her quickly out of the shop.

"Why are we leaving?" she demanded, twisting around in his grip.

"Five guineas?" exclaimed Jack. "It's outrageous – you haven't got that sort of coin."

"Of course I do," she argued. "Don't you remember? I lent you everything I had saved the last time you and your father visited. You said you only needed it for a bit because you couldn't tell him about –"

"Right you are; I do recall our arrangement," Jack hastily interrupted her, cringing inwardly at the reminder. "But since then, complications have arisen, and . . . the truth is, I'm well and truly skint, love. I haven't a farthing."

He exhaled a sigh of relief, hoping this long-avoided confession would clear the air. Once she calmed down, he reasoned, the Brat would have to accept that he couldn't repay what he hadn't got.

He waited for an angry outburst, but none came. Instead, her shoulders drooped and she looked back longingly towards the shop, saying nothing. Jack could read the intensity of her disappointment, and turned his eyes skyward, fervently hoping there would be no tears.

After a pause, she lifted her chin and said, "You couldn't help it; it's all right." Her tone was subdued and a little forced.

By this time they had walked as far as the inn where they were to hire a horse for their journey to Penzance. They spoke with a stable boy, who disappeared in search of a suitable mount.

As they waited, Jack felt unaccustomed promptings of conscience. Glancing down at the Brat, he whispered, "Look here, mouse, I'll make good on it. Promise." She nodded, and forced something resembling a smile, but did not turn to look at him, as the boy returned with a chestnut mare.

"Anyway," he added in darkly conspiratorial tones, "You're not going home yet. We've to deal with the P's first, and then we'll sort out the rest of it." The stable boy listened with ill-concealed curiosity to this speech.

"That would be P for pirates, lad," Jack informed him importantly, jabbing the air with a forefinger. Then he turned a sharp eye upon the mare, which appeared to be at least sixteen years old, and was shifting her weight off her right foreleg as she stood waiting.

"And that horse won't do, mate," Jack announced. "We need one that won't be going lame in half a mile. Let me find the innkeeper." With a flourish of his wrist, he swaggered into the inn.

In Jack's absence, the stable boy stole curious looks at the Brat. _Is that a boy in his brother's clothes?_ he wondered. _Looks like a lass if ye goes by 'ur face an' hair, but why is she in boy's fligs? At least we won't need no side-saddle for 'un._

He had just decided that she was indeed a girl, and that he quite fancied the trancelike way she sat staring absently into the distance, when suddenly the Brat spoke in a small, polite voice.

"Actually, it's P for parents," she told the boy, smiling apologetically. "Only he doesn't like anyone knowing." The boy grinned back at her.

Jack's negotiations with the innkeeper produced a strong, roan gelding that jogged along the rugged path comfortably with the two travelers upon his broad back. For some time they rode in silence, Jack wondering how he could find the five guineas to repay his debt. Asking his father was out of the question, and the work he was starting to do for the East India Trading Company brought less than three pounds each month. That left piracy or a substantial run of luck at cards. As he mulled over these options, the Brat began to enquire about their current venture.

"Do you think the P's have bought the cutter yet?" she asked him. "Perhaps they'll let us name it."

"I expect they've got the cutter well in hand by now," Jack answered. "And it's 'perhaps they'll let us name _her'_, not '_it'_."

"Do you know why they want it – _her_?" the Brat continued.

"No idea, love," he said. "My dad got a message from your dad, and told me were needed in Penzance; then I find your dad's got his eye on a cutter and we're to help sail her back to Pencarren. Then I'd to collect you, Miss Trouble. For all I know, the P's suddenly fancy a change and are now planning to follow the old trade."

"Smuggling?" she asked, surprised. "I shouldn't think so; father has too many messenger commissions - he hasn't the time for anything else lately." Jack smiled to himself; the last thing he could imagine was Captain Harry Bitter taking to the smuggler's trade. Though his father's friend certainly had the requisite boldness and sense of adventure, smuggling would be dull work in comparison to some of Captain Harry's adventures as a King's Messenger.

It was well after dark by the time they reached Penzance. They dismounted at the Turk's Head Inn, and handed over the weary horse, with instructions and payment for returning their mount to Truro. Then they made their way into the dimly lit, low-ceilinged taproom and looked about for Teague and Bitter. There were all manner of customers to be seen that night, from farmers to bailiffs to seafaring men in rough clothes. Jack and the Brat scanned the noisy, smoky room several times before they saw a familiar figure beckoning them over the heads of the other customers. Pushing their way through the crowd, they crossed the room and joined the two captains at a table in one of the private curtained booths that lined one wall of the taproom. Captain Harry's expression warmed at once.

"Ah. . . here's my Nina, at last!" he exclaimed, with a brilliant smile and a kiss for his only child. The Brat's widowed father was tall and almost excessively lean, with an aquiline nose and chiseled, angular face, which still managed to show some traces of humour and kindliness about his mouth and in the fine crow's feet at the corners of his slate-grey eyes. His thick hair was the ashy blonde colour that seemed to run in the Bitter family; lately, one could see a silver hair or two marking the advance of the years. He carried himself with a combination of grace and purposeful energy, and his voice had the ring and authority of a man long accustomed to leading others.

"Delighted to see you safe," he continued. "I wasn't easy about the two of you travelling such rough country so late, though I know better than to doubt Jack's resourcefulness." He beckoned to one of the barmaids for more food and drink; then turned to Jack, extending his hand. "Jack, glad to see you – good man," he said. "We've some work ahead of us tonight, so make sure you have a proper supper. The potato and sorrel pie is excellent with either the mutton or beef. How are you, lad?"

"Never better," answered Jack with a smile. Taking his seat, he nodded to his father. "Dad."

"Jacky," Teague returned the nod.

The long ride had given the two travelers hearty appetites, and once their supper arrived they lost no time in devouring it. "Not so quick," cautioned Captain Harry. "We won't be setting out until a bit later, so take your time. The cutter is riding at anchor nearby, and we'll be leaving the inn through a passage near our table, to avoid attracting attention. Once we've weighed, Edward has worked out the watches."

Teague grunted and began to explain. "It'll take all of us to set the sails and take her out," he told them. "We'll have the pilot an' his boy with us. After that, we'll take four-hour watches in pairs. I'll take the first watch with Jacky; Harry and Nina can take the second. Four on, four off, right? When we near Pencarren, we'll need everyone handin' the sails and bringin' her in." He tapped his finger on his cheek. "Keep a weather eye. Any problems and it's all hands on deck."

"I could just go have a look at her provisions – make sure she's shipshape," offered Jack, hoping to avoid a long wait under his father's watchful gaze.

"She's been fitted out, rigged, provisioned and inspected. Ready to go out of harbour," growled Teague. "Patience, boy; we'll be off soon enough."

After perhaps half an hour, the innkeeper approached their table and began to wipe it clean with a rag. As he did so, he nodded once to Teague and handed him an unused taper. Lighting this from the candle on the table, Teague rose from his chair and moved quietly to a nearby door, followed by Bitter, Jack and Nina. On the other side of the door, they found themselves in a windowless passage lit only by the flame of their taper.

They walked in silence for some time, as the passage seemed to gradually descend. At last, the faint sounds of lapping water, the creak of wooden hulls and the salty, damp smell of the air indicated that they were about to emerge at the harbour. Teague led them from the tunnel to a small boat on the shingle, where the pilot and his boy waited to take them out to the ship.

Jack watched the pilot approach the Brat's father, who deposited a few coins in his palm. "No questions," Bitter said firmly. The pilot nodded; he and the boy climbed into their boat and rowed the small group out to the cutter.

Once on board, the pilot took the helm as Teague directed Jack and the others in hoisting and setting the sails. The cutter slipped her cable and made for the harbour entrance. As the ship cleared the harbour, the pilot and his boy boarded their small boat again, and were soon rowing back to shore.

Jack sauntered over to Captain Harry, who was making sure the lines were properly stowed. "Did Nina show you the scimitar she wants in Truro?" inquired Bitter.

"Ay," replied Jack, with hesitation in his voice, "but – I'm havin' a thought here – perhaps she's a bit young for it yet." He tried a concerned look.

"Nonsense, the sooner the better," Bitter responded, adding "Do you know, every year I've given her a half-guinea on her birthday to do with as she pleases. She's put all of them by so that she can purchase her own sword. Rather fine of her, I thought." He smiled with fatherly pride.

Jack winced, but quickly adjusted his features to seem pleased.

"You know," Bitter continued, "She's already learned to clean, load and fire a pistol. She's demonstrated the maturity to begin learning more skills. Why," he added with some exasperation, "If she were a lad, we wouldn't even be having this discussion."

_If I had the bloody five guineas we wouldn't be havin' it either,_ Jack thought.

Finished with his task, Captain Harry made his way to the hatchway and went below, leaving Jack with his problem unsolved. Avoiding Teague, who would have the helm for another hour or so, Jack made his way towards the bowsprit, and sat on the lee side of the deck, his back against the hull.

It was just past midsummer, and they were sailing under a full moon. In spite of the late hour, the night sky was suffused with a soft, deep shade of ultramarine that made the moon appear slightly golden, with traces of rose marking its round countenance. The weather was fine and the night clear. Jack sighed. What a shame to waste a night like this! It was made for romance, he mused, romance and rum. Yet he was in the company of the P's and a vexing ten-year old to whom he owed money. Unhappily, this last reflection brought him round to his original problem: how was he to get the five guineas he had promised the Brat?

The journey to Pencarren took all of the following day and, late that afternoon, Teague announced that he expected to make port during the First Watch that evening. Jack made a mental calculation to assure himself that the rum supply, if not the wine, would easily last until their arrival.

Just at that moment, Captain Harry emerged from below deck with an unopened bottle which he handed to Jack. "That's the last of the Madeira," he said. "If you fancy a drink of wine, you'll have to deal with the cork. Looks like they pushed the stopper down too far, and now the neck's sealed with a bit too much cement. Fortunately, we're almost home."

Although he vastly preferred rum to wine, Jack took the bottle and saw at once that it would take some time to get it open. He had almost handed it back when inspiration struck. "I'll see to it," he remarked casually. As soon as Captain Harry turned away and started towards the stern, Jack hurried forward to see if Fate had provided a way out of his debt. He found the Brat where she had crawled out on the bowsprit in order to stare down at the waves breaking across the cutter's bow.

"Oi! Brat!" he called out cheerfully. "I've something new to teach you; it's called _wagering_. You'll love it!" He quickly explained the principles of this intriguing pursuit, then got down to its precise exercise.

"We'll have a proper wager," Jack said grandly, waving the bottle at her. "If I can climb to the top of the mast and back down before you can open this bottle, I win and I no longer owe you five guineas. If you open the bottle before I reach the deck, then _you_ win – and I _still_ owe you the five guineas, savvy?"

She narrowed her eyes at this proposition. "That's not fair. It's only what you owe me now. If I win, you should owe me five _more_ guineas. Double."

Jack cleared his throat. "Of course! That was me testin' you. Now I know you've got it sorted and you're ready to have a go," he smiled with an effort, and spread his hands. "Make your conditions, love."

She gave him a suspicious look, but then put her active mind to work. "You'll climb the mast? _Just_ the mast? You won't touch the ratlines? Footropes? Yards? Any lines or ropes at all? You'll climb all the way up and all the way down? No jumping down to the deck?"

"Naturally! I'm deeply wounded you think I'd cheat you, darlin'," he answered. "Quite dreadful what's become of the innocence of youth these days!"

She thought a bit more, adding, "You're to climb where I can see you."

"Agreed! And you're to open the bottle on deck," he replied, "Without help from the P's."

"Do you care if any of the drink is spilt? I can use anything I like as long as I open it myself?" she asked, making sure of the terms of their wager.

"Use any way you like, and spill what you must; I only require that it be open," he told her. "Are you ready?"

"Wait a bit," she said, trotting off quickly and disappearing below deck. In a few moments, he saw her emerge from the hatchway and approach him, the pockets of her breeches looking somewhat lumpy. "I'm ready," she announced.

They stood at the foot of the mast, and on her count of three, Jack began rapidly climbing. As he ascended, he glanced down to check her progress with the bottle. She was kneeling on the deck and he could see her pull a thin rope and something like a small block pulley from her pockets. She threaded the rope through the pulley, as if putting a bit of tackle together. "Unusual," thought Jack, frowning as he continued on his way up.

The next time he looked down, she was holding the block in the cone-like hollow in the base of the bottle. Looping one end of the rope about the neck, she made a sort of harness for the bottle, leaving about six feet of rope unused. Jack knitted his brows, trying to guess what she was up to.

When he reached the top of the mast, he looked down once more, and this time he watched as the Brat rose to her feet and, holding the loose end of the rope, began swinging the bottle in a great circle. Jack's eyes flashed with the sudden realisation that he was about to lose the wager, as she smashed the bottle against the mast and shards of green glass flew everywhere. She jumped backwards with a high-pitched scream, holding up her arms for protection, and then looked straight up the mast at him. "It's open! I've won!" she cried out, exulting.

Jack sighed dejectedly, and turned his gaze to the horizon. At first, the oddness of the sight before him failed to register. From the top of the mast, he could just see over the small point of land that concealed an inlet near Highcliffe House. He found himself staring at a very large, unfamiliar snow-brig, anchored stealthily in the inlet, where Jack had never before seen a vessel moored. Making a mental note to learn more about it once ashore in Pencarren, he descended the mast to find the Brat exuberantly celebrating her victory.

"I've won! I've won!" she shrieked, dancing about the deck. "I _love_ wagering!"

Jack crossed his arms. "I can see I've trained you up too well," he called out, over the noise of her laughter.

"Right! That'll do!" roared Captain Harry, striding towards them. "Why is my deck covered with dangerous broken glass, and who replaced my daughter with this wild, dancing monkey?" he said to the Brat.

She subsided at once. "I'm sorry, father. I . . . I lost my head," she assumed her most sweetly contrite look, to Jack's utter annoyance. "Please don't be angry. I'll clean it up myself, and I promise not to be so wayward again."

"Indeed you shall clean it up. I thought you were past these sorts of antics. And as for you," Captain Harry said as he turned to Jack, "Perhaps you could try to repay my trust in you by providing a modicum of mature guidance?"

"Ay, sir," Jack mumbled apologetically, relieved that Captain Harry did not seem inclined to enquire too closely into the situation. As Jack watched him make his way back to the helm, he heard a quiet voice at his side.

"Ten guineas," the Brat said, under her breath.

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Next: Jack learns more of the snow-brig, and an opportunity presents itself.


	2. The Snow-Brig

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. The original plots and characters are owned by me.

**A/N:** Many thanks to **mrspencil** for invaluable beta-ing!

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**The Snow-Brig**

The winds were light and the water smooth when Teague steered the new cutter slowly into the cove near Highcliffe House. Named for the sheerness of the drop where its granite cliffs fell straight to the shore, Highcliffe was a prosperous but remote estate that held several farms, cottages, and two houses. The largest and finest of these was Highcliffe House, which stood like a sentinel above the town of Pencarren. Highcliffe House was home to the Brat and her father who, in Jack's opinion, rattled about the draughty place like two beans in a bucket.

But as the cutter glided into the cove, Jack saw the Brat look about her and sigh with happiness. "Good t' be home, eh, darlin'?" he couldn't resist asking. The Brat loved every inch of Highcliffe, and was generally to be found in her boy's garb and boots, roaming along its paths or wading through the salty tidal pools that spread across the broad shoreline.

They anchored the cutter not a hundred yards from the snow-brig, and Jack looked for a chance to satisfy his curiosity regarding the strange ship. Teague, however, kept him quite busy stowing lines, making fast the anchor, and attending to numerous other tasks. _Wish there were six o' me_, Jack thought.

When the work was done, Jack found that Peter Dawes, one of Captain Harry's friends from the nearby gypsy encampment, was already waiting in the Bitters' small boat, ready to take the four travellers to shore. Once in the boat, the Brat, plainly curious, gawked at the strange snow, but said nothing. Her father was lost in thought and did not even glance in its direction.

Jack would have questioned Peter Dawes; but each time he opened his mouth, Teague fixed him with a moody stare. He decided to seek a more pliant source of information, and Tamsin Rawle, whose father was the tavern keeper at the Red Lion, was as generous with gossip as she was with her favours. Jack decided he would sample some of the Red Lion's wares in the not-too-distant future.

As soon as the boat reached shore, Peter Dawes bade them good-bye and set off on foot for the camp. With a quick nod of his head, Teague also departed, bound for the _Misty Lady_. Jack, Captain Bitter, and the Brat climbed the stone steps that led up from the cove to Highcliffe's gardens, the Brat bouncing ahead of Jack and her father. Bitter paused a moment on the steps, turned to Jack, and asked, "If you've no immediate plans, might I possibly prevail upon you to look in on Nina over the next three weeks? I'm wanted in London on the King's errand, and I mean to leave in the morning."

Jack nodded absently, his mind still on the snow. "Aye, Harry," he said. "I'll see to it."

The next morning, just as the autumn sun began to turn the stubble fields to gold, Captain Bitter swung up into the saddle of his favourite horse, a black stallion named Achilles, and set off for London, riding east on the rutted post road. With both Teague and Bitter absent, Jack decided to conduct his own inspection of the snow, alone. He found the Brat at the stable, happily helping to feed and brush the Bitters' other horses.

"I see your dad's nipped off to London," he observed cheerfully. "Any idea when he'll be back?"

The Brat's face fell at the mention of London. Dropping the brush she was using, she turned to Jack with a troubled look. "He's _riding_, you know," she said, as though this were a portent of calamity. "He's riding Achilles." She paused dramatically. "_Achilles_. He wouldn't listen to me."

Jack nodded wisely, then tilted his head to one side studying, in turn, the stable door, the rafters, and the ground at his feet, in search of her meaning. "Ah," he said at last. "This would be about the horse's name; am I right?"

"Achilles was unlucky. Paris _killed_ him," she explained, staring hard at Jack to make sure he heard each word.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her that Paris, enjoyed to the fullest, could kill any man, when he realised she didn't mean the city; she was referring to the warriors at the siege of Troy. "Well, they all ran round killin' each other, didn't they, love?" he said, "I mean, that's your Greek epic poetry, innit?" He patted her on the shoulder. "Never mind, mouse; Achilles killed Hector, before Paris got 'im. So there you are – troublemakers, the lot of 'em."

He picked up the brush she had dropped and handed it to her. "I'm off to see to some business – be back before supper." He turned to leave, then spun back around to face her. "You'll be here, will ye? Not plannin' any rides, treks, visits, or otherwise perambulatory activities along the shore?" he asked, wriggling his fingers as if pulling the possibilities out of thin air. She shook her head.

"Well, no worries, then." He smiled toothily and sauntered off.

Jack rowed himself out to the snow, tied the boat's painter to the ship's ladder, and scrambled up on deck to have a look. The snow was an impressive ship, he thought, with no less than three headsails and two masts, square-rigged, with four yards each. Captain Bitter's new cutter looked diminutive next to it.

Strolling about the deck, Jack examined her from stem to stern, and speculated. It seemed to him that the gear, although put away neatly, had not been stowed properly by the hands of able seamen. He tried the hatch covers, which were battened down securely, and the doors to the companionways, which were likewise padlocked. A merchant vessel this large would surely be a topic of conversation in little Pencarren; he decided to see what Tamsin could tell him.

When he announced at supper that he was going down to the Red Lion for a tot of rum, the Brat fixed him with a reproachful stare, which he interpreted correctly to mean that she disapproved of further expenditures on the part of her debtor. He endeavoured to ease her mind by explaining the economics of the public house to her.

"Look here, Brat, rum is so plentiful, it's as common as grass, and just as cheap," he began.

"Grass is free," she pointed out.

"Right; well, I grant you, said rum is slightly less common than grass," he countered. "Believe me, mouse, I could drink their cellar dry – hundreds of bottles – and it wouldn't be anywhere near what I owe you."

This was rather an exaggeration, but he knew she would have to accept his word on it. "Now it's off to bed with you," he went on, making shooing motions with his hands, "Or reading, or whatever it is you get up to. I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow" – the Brat rolled her eyes and he quickly amended his promise – "or, certainly by eight bells o' the forenoon watch."

"Everyone's always going off," she muttered with a sigh. Jack pretended not to hear; he adjusted his hat and cuffs, and departed.

When he arrived at the Red Lion, Tamsin Rawle was deep in conversation with an older man whose tanned, angular face and straight blond hair gave him a handsome, dashing look. Two of Tamsin's sisters were managing the customers, whilst Tamsin leaned on one elbow with a starry expression in her eyes, talking to the blond man. She moved her eyes just enough to catch Jack's entrance on the other side of the taproom, then, ignoring his attempt to wave a greeting, continued her conversation. Nothing daunted, Jack called for a bottle and tankard, which he took to their table.

"Hullo, darlin'," he said to Tamsin. "Who's yer friend?" He saluted the blond man with his tankard and took a generous swallow of rum.

"'Is name's Anders. Ee's from Sweden," Tamsin said, keeping her eyes on Anders.

"Denmark," Anders said, extending a hand to Jack. "And you are—?"

"Captain Jack Sparrow," Jack answered, shaking Anders' hand. He expected Tamsin to scoff at his prematurely added title, but she sipped her drink in resentful silence. Anders quickly drank off the rest of his tankard and took his leave, despite Tamsin's best efforts to beguile him into staying. As he exited, she gave Jack a sharp look.

"Tes six weeks I've toiled to get 'im this far, an' who shows up? Why, tes me old friend Jack!" Tamsin huffed. "An' where 'ave you been for the last year, I should like to know, eh? I suspicioned you'd gone off the edge o' the earth."

"Now, love, you know I always turn up," said Jack, holding out his hand in supplication. He looked deep into her eyes and saw that she was beginning to waver. "If yer not workin' tonight, darlin'," he said, "an' you've quite forgiven old Jack, we might pass some time together." He waited; then he saw her laugh under her breath.

"Jack Sparrow, ye'll be the death o' me or I'm a heathen," she replied, shaking her head. "All right, you – what's on yer mind then, an' don't tell me tes nothin'."

"Well," Jack said, settling in and putting an arm around her, "I did wonder, when I came sailin' up the coast – just to see you, love! – what a snow-brig might be doin' hidden in a cove what's almost too small to hold 'er."

Tamsin's eyes sparkled with excitement; she loved being at the centre of attention, and now she had news that she knew would fascinate Jack. "As it happens," she said softly, "I might have heared a bit about that. Her's a smugglin' ship" – Tamsin looked around the taproom – "took'n by the Customs House. The _Smiling Katie._ The revenue men 'ad nowhere t' store 'er cargo, so they had to leave it on her. They're waitin' for room at one o' the storehouses." She sipped from her tankard, watching Jack over its rim.

Jack quickly sorted a list of questions that had popped into his head, and chose the one with the best chance of keeping Tamsin talking. He snorted, "You're makin' that up, you are! Smugglers using a great hulkin' vessel like that? They might as well fire their guns as they sail into port. Smugglers, love, use luggers an' wherries, not bloody great ships like that!"

"An' who should know betterer than me?" Tamsin fired back. "My uncle did trade in uncustomed goods for years! They uses the big 'uns to make the crossing, then they uses dozens o' little boats t' split the cargo an' take it ashore." She gave Jack a smug look. "That way, the preventive services can't get it all. The smugglers land the goods everywhere, as sly as you like."

"Apparently not quite as sly as you say," Jack answered. "Or there wouldn't be a snow-brig anchored in the cove with all her contraband, would there?" He leaned forward, locking eyes with Tamsin, who gazed at him the way the Brat had gazed at the scimitar in the shop window. "And who might be runnin' such a large ring with enough vessels to move all those goods?" he asked.

Tamsin inclined her head towards the wall, and Jack saw a poster tacked to it. He glanced around the taproom, then strolled over to read the notice. There was a sketch of a man with a lantern-jawed face, beaky nose, and angry scowl, labelled "Capt. Thomas Hawkhurst", and under it was a notice from the Customs House that read, in part: "whosoever can lay information leading to the capture of HAWKHURST, his ships or their crews will receive a reward of £12,000 from His Majesty's Government." Jack returned to Tamsin with a thoughtful look on his face.

"So, am I to understand that someone has captured said Hawkhurst and come in for a generous reward?" he asked. Tamsin nodded.

"They picked up most o' the Hawkhurst gang," she said, "includin' him, an' took 'em off to gaol. They catched the snow when they were puttin' the brandy into draggers for landing." Jack was surprised and impressed with her command of smuggler's terms, but one word in particular had caught his ear.

"Brandy?" he enquired, drawing his eyebrows together as he concentrated. "That was the cargo?" He lowered his voice and leaned across the table. "And 'ow much brandy might be left on the snow?"

"Well, they didn't get the whole crop, y'know," she said. "I think there was about a thousand half-ankers left on the _Smilin' Katie_, when she was took."

"No wonder she's smilin'," murmured Jack. He darted a glance at Tamsin out of the corner of his eye and flashed a distracted smile, but he was beginning to feel the need for solitude in which to mull the possibilities at hand. "A thousand half-ankers?" he mused. "What would that be worth, I wonder?"

"Four quid apiece," she answered promptly with a grin. "But no one's mad enough to touch it. If Hawkhurst gets loose before ee's turned off, he'll butcher every man who took his goods or gave information. He's a ruthless bastard and 'is gang 'ud tear ee to shreds. No one crosses 'em – they killed three King's officers near Fowey last year – throwed 'em down a well."

"So . . . four thousand pounds, you think?" Jack asked, having calculated that four thousand pounds less ten guineas would be enough to buy two ships. Tamsin gave him a knowing look. "I mean," he hastened to add, "just for the sake of argument, love. Who'd be fool enough to take on Hawkhurst?"

"Oh, I might know someone," she replied, eyeing him. "But I'd strongly advise him t' think better of it."

Just then, Mr Rawle came in from the kitchen. "Tamsin!" he shouted from the door. "I suppose the bottles'll count themselves?" Tamsin jumped up from her seat at once.

"Good-night, Jack. I've to count th' cellar," she said. "I've a good head for figures."

"You'll be running this place one day, darlin'," said Jack, raising his tankard in a toast. Tamsin flashed him a quick smile and vanished into the Red Lion's kitchen.

Jack walked back to Highcliffe House convinced that the opportune moment had arrived for him to profit from the large, unguarded supply of brandy. He would have to find a way to get the brandy off the snow, for one thing. Then it would have to be stored until he could find buyers. A half-anker was a small enough cask at three gallons or so, but moving a thousand of them would be daunting. And there was the matter of the locks on all the hatches.

He stopped walking, and stood with a frown, swaying slightly. He knew someone who could pick locks; in fact, she had quite a talent for it. Unfortunately, she was the same suspicious ten-year old to whom he owed money. Her father delighted in teaching her some of the skills that were useful in his adventurous profession – horse riding, foreign languages, weaponry – but also more dubious accomplishments, including lock-picking as a means of escaping confinement.

But she wouldn't know the value of the brandy. Perhaps he could tell her it was worth twenty guineas, which they would share equally. He could bring her in as a sort of junior partner, and she would unlock the hatches for him. In fact, perhaps she could help him store some of the brandy in Highcliffe, which had scores of closets and lumber rooms.

By the time he reached Highcliffe House, Jack had his plans well in hand. He found the household had gone to bed, leaving the door barred and the lights out, but he wanted to present his plan to the Brat without delay. He walked around to her window and tossed a few pebbles at it. After a few moments, he saw the window open and the Brat's head poked out. She looked about, and Jack waved his hat to catch her eye.

"D' ye fancy a flutter in the old trade, love?" he asked.

There was a long silence, then she said, "I'm coming down," and shut the window.

After a little while, Jack saw the window open. The Brat climbed out in her boy's clothes, and came nimbly down the outside pipe. "I thought you said you'd be back at breakfast," she mumbled with a yawn.

"Aye, mousie," Jack answered with a smile. "But I had a thought. Let's walk a bit an' I'll tell you a tale."

They walked along the sandy shore, and Jack explained: smugglers had left an untended cargo on the snow-brig worth twenty pounds, and now they were never coming back for it. If she would help him get it off the ship and hide it, he would sell it and pay her the money he owed. He would even give her another guinea for helping him. He watched her anxiously as they walked, trying to gauge her reaction.

"What happened to the smugglers?" was her first question.

"Well! It's all over for that lot," he told her. "They've been sent to gaol, and likely won't be among the living much longer. So the cargo is really sort of . . . abandoned, if you like. It belongs to whoever finds it. Like buried treasure." The Brat looked thoughtful, then ventured another query.

"What did you say the snow is called?" she asked.

Jack narrowed his eyes. "I know what you're on about," he said. "She's called _Smiling Katie_, an' there's naught unlucky about that. Trust me, darlin' – it'll be a lucky venture for us both."

"What about Tamsin?" she asked. "She told you about it in the first place. Won't she expect a share?"

_Oh, perhaps if she knew what I was up to_, thought Jack, looking up at the stars. But he said, "Leave that to me, love. I'll deal with her fairly." The Brat nodded, and he knew she was beginning to be persuaded.

"We'd have to get a bit of help to move it all," she said slowly. "What do you think that would cost?"

Jack smiled indulgently. "Only a shilling or two," he hazarded, wondering where she was leading him.

"It's to come out of your share, not mine," she proposed. Jack frowned, and she quickly explained, "I'll loan you the horses, so you should pay for the work." Jack cleared his throat, but couldn't deny the logic of her argument, and he was quite impressed with her next idea.

"You can ask Noah and Sam to help," she suggested, naming two boys from the gypsy camp. "They'll keep it a secret. Then I'll bring the horses – _oh!_" she exclaimed. "We need to put something over their hooves, so they don't make noise!" She saw Jack's startled expression. "I heard Mr Rawle tell father that the old smugglers always did it that way."

"Sharp ears," murmured Jack with a smile.

"I'll lead the horses up to Highcliffe, but I need someone to unload the casks," she looked questioningly at Jack.

"You mean there's something you haven't worked out?" Jack teased her. "Don't worry, love. I'll take charge of it." He patted her on the head. "Do we have an accord?" he asked with a grin, extending his hand.

"We have an accord," she answered, smiling back at him.

* * *

Next: The cargo is landed and there is a change of plans.


	3. The Plundering of the Smiling Katie

**Disclaimer:** I own no part of Pirates of the Caribbean. The original plots and characters are owned by me.

**A/N:** Many thanks to **StutleyConstable** for reviewing!

* * *

** The Plundering of the _Smiling Katie_**

It had been nearly three in the morning when Jack and the Brat reached an accord. Therefore, it was unsurprising that the next day found Highcliffe House silent throughout the morning, save for the sedate ticking of the longcase clock tucked into a corner of the Great Hall. There was no sign of the Brat, and the Bitters' housekeeper had gone to the butcher shop in Pencarren. In the library, a young man lay stretched out upon a settle not quite long enough to accommodate him: his booted feet were propped up at one end of it and his head was supported by a worn cushion at the other. He seemed to be sleeping soundly, with arms folded across his body and chin resting upon his chest. His tricorne hat was tilted over his eyes to keep out the light.

Jack Sparrow was not asleep, however; he was reviewing each step of the enterprise he had planned for that evening.

He had dismissed the Brat's romantic idea of transporting the_ Katie's_ cargo with pack horses – there was far too much of it. It would take, he reckoned, a caravan of more than one hundred horses to carry that many ankers of brandy, and the Bitters had only five, including the Brat's pony. The cargo would have to be shifted as quickly as possible, and at night to avoid attracting attention. Jack concluded that it would be more practical to rig a hoist and haul the goods up the side of the cliff. He guessed that he should be able to move it all in three nights, using only the Bitters' horses, three lads from the gipsy encampment, and the Brat, who would insist on taking part.

He heard the sound of someone's throat being cleared, and looked out from under his hat to find the Brat standing in the doorway. She was in her usual linen shirt and loose-hanging waistcoat over dark knee-breeches with the strings untied at her knees. She had a pile of rags and twine in her hands, and Jack noticed a lump on one side of the waistcoat. He frowned.

"You're not carryin' a flask, are you?" he asked. "Because you're a bit young yet—" he stopped as she tossed the rags onto her father's desk, and adjusted the waistcoat to reveal a large, sinister-looking folding knife. She pulled it out of her waistband and opened the clasp. The knife was perhaps ten inches long, with a stabbing point, and two different edges; serrated on one side and curved on the other. A multitude of crude and mysterious engravings decorated the blade, and the handle was oddly crooked.

Jack stared, drawing his eyebrows together. "What the bloody hell are you doin' with that . . . that _gelding_ knife?" he demanded, gesturing at the weapon.

"It's not a gelding knife," said the Brat hotly. "It's a _fighting_ knife! It's called a _navaja_. And it's in case of danger. I ought to have _something_."

Jack instantly sensed the presence of a theme that would draw the conversation towards the scimitar purchase just as an undertow pulls an unwary ship onto dangerous rocks and, like a prudent captain, he steered the discussion back to calmer waters. Sitting up, he patted the settle. The Brat approached with bouncing steps and jumped up beside him. _Like a flea,_ he thought wearily.

"These would be for the horses' hooves, I presume?" he asked, pointing at the bundle of rags. She nodded.

"Well done, love," he smiled, "But I think we'd best be changin' one or two things."

He explained the advantages of rigging the hoist, emphasising the important role she would still play. "You've to lead the horses across the garden when I give the word, so they can pull up the net properly. And don't forget," he added, "I need you to pick the locks on the _Katie_ so's we can get our hands on the brandy to begin with."

At this last remark, her face brightened. "Shall I pick the locks now?" she asked. "Will you take me aboard the snow?"

"You took the words right out of me mouth, love. That is exactly what I had been about t' propose," said Jack, who had not been about to propose any such thing. "Let's have a look, shall we?"

They rowed out to the snow in the Bitters' small shore boat, and Jack directed the Brat to the main hatchway. She crouched over the padlock in silence, and Jack waited as she examined it. At last she took a slender pick from the pocket of her breeches, and used it to carefully extract a bit of wood from the lock. "Look," she said, holding it up for his inspection. "Someone's been at the lock."

Jack's face registered his shock and disapproval. "Did they get in?" he asked, feeling quite as outraged as if it were his own cargo.

"You can't tell," she replied. "But I can open it for you." She turned back to the lock, and after a few moments, Jack heard a _snick_, as it opened.

"Stand back and wait for me," he told her, and pulled the cover off the hatchway. He climbed down the ladder into the hold, which smelt strongly of brandy, and made a rough count of the half-ankers. When he finished, he counted again to make sure. If Tamsin had been correct about there being a thousand of them, then someone had surely broken in and helped themselves, for now there were only seven hundred and forty. Jack narrowed his eyes and tried to think who might have taken the missing brandy.

"What are you doing?" he heard the Brat call through the hatchway. "When can I come down as well?" Jack climbed back up to the deck at once.

"No need, love; I'll show you later," he said. He climbed out and pulled the hatch cover back into place. Looking up at the rigging, he noticed that a hoist had been rigged above the hatch. He was certain that there had been no hoist there on the previous day; the persons responsible for removing the ankers intended to return, by the look of it, and had saved themselves some work by leaving the hoist in place. _That's handy, _Jack thought. _Saves us some work as well, when I get me hands on the rest of it tonight._

He made the Brat wait while he assembled the rest of the nets, lines, and pulleys he would need to rig the hoist at the top of the cliff. "Watch yerself, mouse," he cautioned, as the Brat boarded the boat, stepping over the many coils of rope. As they rowed back to shore, he assigned her more duties. "You've t' get Noah, Sam, an' that cousin of theirs – the really heavy cove –"

"Rob," the Brat interjected.

"Aye, Rob. Perfect name for this line o' work," Jack remarked. "Now don't you name a price – just say Jack'll see 'em right for a fair night's work. We'll all meet in the garden just after sunset. You're t' harness the horses and bring 'em. And make sure we're not disturbed. Can you send Mrs Curtain an' Thomas off for the night?" he asked, naming the housekeeper and groom. The Brat nodded, smiling.

"Wot are you grinnin' about?" Jack teased her.

"This is fun," she answered.

Just after four o'clock that afternoon, Jack himself carefully set up a hoist in an oak tree at the edge of the garden to bring the cargo from the shore up the side of the cliff. The Brat assured Thomas that Jack had permission to do this. "It's to do with father's cutter. I'm not allowed to say more," she told him.

That evening, the small band of novice smugglers met in the garden. The Brat was holding the horses, four of them harnessed with what seemed to be the tack used to draw the Bitters' family coach, whilst the Brat's pony wore the harness used with her cart. The three Smith boys, Noah, Sam, and cousin Rob, with their black hair and large dark eyes, were all standing beside her when Jack arrived.

"Wait here," Jack instructed the Brat, "An' you lot, follow me."

He led the Smith boys down to the shore, and they watched as he secured one end of a very long line by tying it around a huge rock. He unwound the rest, taking it on board the shore boat, and they rowed out to the _Katie_. The Smiths climbed aboard the _Katie_ whilst Jack tied up the boat's painter and fastened the long line to the ship.

They untied the hoist and lowered the tackle through the main hatch. Jack and Sam went into the hold, spread out the net, and began moving the ankers on to it. When Jack judged it full, he scrambled out and helped Noah and Rob turn the capstan to lift the load through the hatch. He hooked the net with a gaff, swinging it clear of the hatch, and in no time the ankers were standing on the deck, as the empty net was lowered once more. "We'll clear out the hold first, and then move 'em to shore," Jack said.

As they brought up the second load, however, he noticed a change on the horizon that made him swear under his breath; a thick, white line had formed just where the sea and sky should meet.

"We've got sea fog comin' in," he informed Sam. He reckoned they had perhaps four hours in which to ferry the ankers ashore and hoist them up the cliff – not nearly enough time.

Noah had already loaded the boat with as many ankers as it could carry, and was drawing it to shore by pulling it along the line Jack had set. Then he unloaded the boat, while Jack, Sam, and Rob emptied more of the hold.

By the time the fog drew near, it was nearly midnight, the hold was empty, and although a great many ankers had been put ashore, most of the cargo was still on the _Katie's_ deck. Jack and the Smith boys untied the long line, and rowed to shore for the second phase of their work.

"Go give 'er a hand with the horses," Jack said to Rob. "An' we'll load the net. Three pulls on the rope means bring up the load, right? Get the ankers out, and send it back down."

Over the next two hours, Jack, Sam and Noah sent five loads up the side of the cliff. When they finished, the air was beginning to fill with wisps of fog. It would take too long and be too dangerous to hoist any more ankers – but what to do about the cargo still on the _Katie's_ deck?

As Jack pondered this question, his eye was drawn to the cutter, riding peacefully at anchor only one hundred yards away. "Stay here, mates," he told his friends. "Back in a trice," he added over his shoulder as he hastily climbed the stone steps to Highcliffe.

At the top of the steps, Jack was surprised to find that Rob had been joined by Thomas, and the two of them were rolling the ankers towards the house. "Here – what's all this?" he growled at the Brat, who was holding the horses and directing the two boys.

"Thomas is helping," she informed him.

"Thomas is a sly one," Jack remarked. "I don't suppose you offered 'im an anker in exchange?"

"Two," she replied. "You said it wasn't worth much, so I thought—"

"Then think no more, darlin'," he said, imagining Thomas' delight in being offered the equivalent of three month's wages for a single night's work. "I'm in charge of the plunder; you're in charge of the horses, savvy? No more accords unless you speak t' me first, right?" He waved at Thomas and forced himself to grin before dashing back down to the shore.

"Let's go, lads," he said to Sam and Noah. This time, they rowed out to the cutter, Jack taking the long line with him, and tying it as before. "Whatever y' do," he said, "Don't cut this loose – it's the only way we'll find the shore after the fog sets in." He tied off the Bitters' boat, and took Noah and Sam aboard the cutter.

There was almost no air moving, and so the cutter drifted downwind gently as Jack paid out the anchor cable slowly and smoothly. Eventually, he brought the cutter alongside the snow, and cleated off the cable.

Sam and Noah watched respectfully as Jack went from bow to stern, tying the two ships together. "No offense intended, mates, but I've been at this a bit longer than either of you," he remarked over his shoulder, "An' it wouldn't do to have 'em drift apart – not with the work we'll be doin'." Then he nodded towards the gangplanks. "Release those an' lay 'em athwart the vessels amidships."

His two friends made haste to follow Jack's orders, and the three of them began rolling the ankers from the _Katie_ to the cutter. Jack opened the cutter's hatch, and the ankers were stowed in its much smaller hold.

By this time, the fog was heavier, and Jack was glad to have thought of this new plan; it was simpler and even faster than his original scheme. He only had to dispose of the brandy before the cutter was needed, and that seemed an easy enough proposition.

Dawn had broken by the time they finished, and they were exhausted – aching and sweating from their labour. As Sam rolled the last anker across, Jack stopped him by putting a foot on its side. "This one's yours," he told them.

After resting for a short time, Jack threw off the lines that bound the ships together, and carefully winched in the cable until the cutter was back in its original position. They loaded the Smiths' anker into the shore boat, untied the long line from the cutter, and used it to pull their boat to shore.

The Smiths and their anker disappeared discreetly into the fog, and Jack used his last bit of strength to climb the steps back to Highcliffe. He found no one in the garden, and the hoist had been removed, undoubtedly by Thomas. Jack heaved a grateful sigh. _I suppose he earned his two ankers after all_, he thought. Then he looked about him at the state of the garden. The ground was torn up and several flower beds trampled, both from the horses and from the ankers being rolled hastily towards the house. And the horses had left other reminders of their presence, he realised, looking at the sole of one of his boots.

He made for the house, anxious to see where the Brat had stored the ankers, which he thought numbered about one hundred and forty. However, the house was dark and the Brat seemed to have retired. Jack poked through every closet and storeroom he knew of, but none contained the brandy. Frustrated, he resolved to awaken her and find out where she had put their plunder.

He knocked softly at her door, and the Brat cracked it open immediately. "I've been waiting all this time," she said reproachfully. "I thought you might want to count them again." She swung the door wide, and Jack groaned.

"You stowed 'em _here_, of all places?" he asked.

"Of course I did. Where did you think I would put them?" she replied, unperturbed.

"Oh, well, this won't be half obvious, will it!" he said, waving his hand as he strode about the room.

"I shall tell Mrs Curtain that she's not to go into my room," said the Brat serenely.

"The garden looks like the dog's dinner," Jack pointed out.

"I shall say I've been digging in it," she replied. Jack snorted.

"We're lucky the P's aren't here," he retorted. He pointed to his boot. "And what about all this, eh? It's all over the garden as well." The Brat shrugged.

"I've mucked out stalls before," she said. "Thomas and I will rake it up and toss it over the cliff."

Jack considered this briefly, then smiled. "Ah, well, why not? Y'know, Brat, sometimes your schemes are as mad as mine."

"What did you do with the rest of it?" she asked.

"Stowed safely on the cutter, to be sold before the P's return," he told her.

"I want to see," she demanded at once. "We're partners. I've a right."

Jack rolled his eyes. "And so you shall, but not today. Now get some rest and keep your door locked."

She nodded. "If you're tired, you might use Father's room," she offered. "Only take that boot off first."

"Ta, love, but it likely smells better than me feet," he answered with a grin. However, he did retire to Captain Harry's room, and slept soundly through most of the day.

The taproom at the Red Lion was noisy and crowded that night, and Tamsin bustled past Jack several times, bringing food and drink to the Lion's customers. Jack hadn't any money, since he had yet to sell one of the ankers; and he was forced to rely upon the good graces of others who were buying rounds. In the end, this turned out to be a stroke of luck, since one of his benefactors was a farmer celebrating the upcoming wedding of his eldest daughter.

"I love weddings!" Jack said cheerily. "When's it set to go off?"

"Three months from now," replied the farmer. Jack had hoped for a shorter interval, sensing a possible buyer for some of the brandy; nevertheless, it was the best opportunity on offer that night, and so he pursued it.

"Everything set for the weddin' party?" he enquired. "Food, music, tables . . . drink?"

"I was set t' go t' Looe fer a tub o' fine brandy t' share out wi' me brother," the farmer said. Jack brightened at this, and before long a deal had been struck for one half-anker of brandy, finer than any in Looe, according to Jack.

His enthusiasm sagged a bit after he had walked all the way back to Highcliffe to retrieve it, argued the Brat out of accompanying him, and delivered it safe to the farmer – and at the end of it, only four quid was in his pocket.

_At this rate, I'll need ten years to move the lot of it_, he thought.

He needed to find customers that were interested in buying entire shipments and doing it quickly. And for that, he reasoned, he would need Tamsin.

* * *

**Next:** Jack finds a buyer and success seems assured (but things are seldom what they seem).

**A/N:** The plausibility of the hoists and the transfer of the barrels was checked by a journeyman millwright with a certification in rigging, and the author hereby extends grateful thanks for this work!


End file.
